


The Egg is a Metaphor

by kat8cha



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Noir, Cameos, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat8cha/pseuds/kat8cha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson is a hard-boiled detective in the big city, he goes to work rain, snow, or sunshine so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. He's a bit scrambled but... you get the point. When Thor Foster (formerly Odinson) goes missing Mrs. Foster walks into Coulson's dingy little office to offer him a job. With it will come life or death situations, a chance at redemption, and a chance at love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bongo Drums and Broken Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> [Written for this prompt: In a non-superhero Noir alternate universe... Coulson is a private eye/police detective/businessman/random person who gets caught up in something big.](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/3266.html?thread=1121730#t1121730)
> 
> This is one of the many WiPs I've been working on. It was started pre-release of the movie and currently contains no spoilers. As it's alternate universe any spoilers will be subtle little hints that you won't even realize were spoilers until you watch the movie. This work will contain cameos by Marvel Comics characters as well as Marvel Cinematic Universe characters.

In any good film the woman would have come first. She would have entered Coulson’s dingy, ill-lit office to the beat of his hormonal drums, dressed in clinging shades of red and black. Her face would have been partially obscured, possibly by a cascade of red hair arranged to fall artfully over one eye, by the casually bent brim of a wide-brimmed hat, by a veil or by the cloudy haze of her cigarette as she worked through pack after pack. In truth, Coulson never did see her entire face, his encounters with the woman being brief, surreptitious, and often dangerous. He was sure, however, that Clint had seen her face, was possibly seeing it now as he stood between a loaded gun and Coulson’s body, Clint’s suit jacket flapping in the breeze obscuring Coulson’s possibly one clear look at his would be killer’s face. 

It had all started with a woman though, two women to be exact. Jane Foster had entered his office not to the sound of beating drums but to the soft click clacking of her sensible but still stylish heels, and to the hard clack of her compatriot’s less sensible and imminently more stylish set. Foster’s hair was done up in careful curls, pinned and set in place, Darcy Lewis’ hair was cut short in the scandalous style of the day and it curled around her face to frame an expression which in the right light and mood would no doubt have been considered devilishly alluring. The lights of Coulson’s office flattered no one however, when they worked at full power they were harsh and unforgiving, but most of the time they merely flickered now and then and gave everything a grotesque yellowish cast. Coulson himself didn’t care, he often looked afflicted with scurvy due to a lack of proper diet, proper sleep, and the stress of working as a private detective in a city riddled with police corruption and mobsters. 

Jane sniffled several times during their first meeting, an embroidered handkerchief making the rounds to dot at the edge of her eyes and to be sniffled into. She wanted him to find someone, not just any someone, her husband. Now, missing person’s wasn’t the kind of case Phil would pick up if he ever had the choice to be choosy, not when it was a husband involved.

“Mrs. Foster, sometimes when a husband goes missing he does not want to be found.” It was not in him to deny the truth. Husbands went missing all the time, often with a pretty house maid or cabana boy. Sometimes there were more devious plots at work, murder, embezzlement, sometimes the wife had even done the husband in, but no matter how a missing person’s case ended it was rarely pretty. “For a missing person’s case I require a retainer.”

Unfortunately, Coulson had never had the option of being choosy. Whether it was missing persons, missing pets, stalking lovers, or location the family jewels, Coulson would do just about anything to make sure he could pay the rent.

“I can pay.” Jane settled a hand on Darcy’s arm when her friend looked ready to fight Coulson over the insult of requiring a retainer. “Expenses, travel, your hourly rate and the two hundred dollar retainer you require for missing person’s cases.” Jane smiled at Coulson then, somewhat self-deprecatingly, somewhat cuttingly. Coulson barely felt the sting. “My friend Mrs. Parker informed me of your prices.”

It took him a second to remember Parker. A very pretty girl with an unfortunately intelligent and well-connected husband. Coulson had found the young man entangled in an affair of Norman Osbourn’s, it had taken some stealth to get Mr. Parker out of that without anyone becoming aware of Coulson’s involvement, it had taken some skill to make sure Parker emerged with enough blackmail to keep himself, his widowed aunt, and his wife safe. It had taken more than a little negotiation to convince Parker that the safest place for him to be would be at Four Freedoms Plaza. Parker was astoundingly well connected and could have taken refuge with a number of ‘close friends’, however Coulson didn’t trust Tony Stark as far as he could spit and he was sure that newspaper mogul J. Jonah Jameson would gladly sell someone else’s bodily organs for a news story. 

“Then I’m all yours.” Foster was well dressed, modest and expensive while her companion was much flashier (although slightly less expensive). “Do you have a photograph of your husband?”

Instead of the tentative opening of a locket, as Coulson had face with other missing husbands, Foster reached into her handbag and pulled out a silver picture frame. She set it on Coulson’s desk and opened it up, inside were two charming photos, on the left a picture of Jane and the man who must be her husband and to the right a bust of her husband. He was a handsome man, taller than Jane and about twice as wide as his slim wife. His hair was some pale shade and was pulled back from his face in both pictures. His smile was wide and unfeigned, and considering how long taking a picture could take he must have been a cheerful man indeed.

“This is Thor.” Jane said, her hand lingering on the frame. Coulson nodded absentmindedly and made a note in his case booklet before he snapped his attention back to his client. She had let go of the frame and now held her hands crossed in her lap and her shoulders were pulled back in a defensive posture. “Thor Odinnson.”

 _Thor Odinnson_ , the name echoed inside of Coulson’s head, thankfully he managed to keep his cool and was sure that very little of is emotions showed on his face. Hopefully, anyway. “And you are...”

“We decided to keep my maiden name.” A small smile pulled at her lips and Jane ducked her head to stare at her hands. “He took it as his own to avoid... trouble.”

A few years ago there had been trouble in the ranks of the Aesir gang. Odin Borrson (and despite is heritage Coulson would never understand the generational name changing of some cultures) had been the ‘All-Father’ of the Aesir family for nearly sixty years, while everyone had known that someday he would pass one no one had truly expected it when it happened, and certainly no one believed that Odin would pass away calmly in his sleep. Unfortunately he had left control of the crime family contested due to a recent argument with Thor, the favorite for the All-Father position. Thor had been absent at the time of Odin’s death and indeed, many thought that Thor had been killed by his brother Loki when Loki sprung his coup for leadership. There had been a bloody gang battle in the streets and many Aesir had left (or die, or both) the ‘Warriors Three’ and the ‘Lady’ Sif had left in search of Thor and if they had found him (for apparently he was alive) it was too late to take back the Aesir gang. 

“I suppose he was alive after all.” Coulson cleared his throat and adjusted his loose tie. “I’ll take your case, Mrs. Foster.” The police would never take it seriously or would easily write it off as being Loki’s doing or some other gang warfare and Coulson knew that most of the local private eyes could (and probably would) be bought off. Foster had clearly stumbled into a spot of luck when her friend Mrs. Parker had recommended him.

He considered himself neither incorruptible nor fearless, but money was not his vice and egregious bodily harm was not one of his fears.


	2. On the List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil pays a call on an old friend and a current informant.

When you were a detective on the police force, you learned the right places to find a snitch or a bit of gossip, when you quit the police force to become a private detective you learned to find the right places to make friends. That was why, after Mrs. Foster and Ms. Lewis had left the building Coulson tossed on his jacket and left the office, just outside of his building, shadowed by an overhang, Coulson passed a man lighting a cigarette. While he waited for the cab Coulson resolutely did not stare but instead categorized what he could of the man from the corner of his eye. He was an inch or so shorter than Coulson, possibly around 5’9, he was a few years younger as well but not by much, Coulson would have placed the man somewhere in his thirties. A lifelong smoker, if the wrinkles on his forehead that had been highlighted by the flash of his lighter were to be believed. He was dressed in a suit (dark grey) underneath a large flapping overcoat, the kind popularized by a certain type of movie and that some people, for some reason, believed to be ‘cool’. The mild wind blew smoke in Coulson’s direction (not the cheapest cigarettes but not the most expensive either) and caused the ends of the coat to flap around the man’s ankles. Coulson did his best not to take too deep a breath.

There was no conclusive tie-in between black lungs, cancer, and smoking, at least no conclusive tie-in that the tobacco companies would allow to see the light of day. Still there were too many potential connections for anyone with a lick of sense to ignore them. Coulson had quit smoking three years ago and it had been an extremely unpleasant experience all around. It was the reminder of this experience that kept him from going back more than anything else, and although he did feel healthier (also richer buying cigarettes added up) since quitting smoking there were times when a whiff of cigarette, cigar, or pipe smoke would fill him with cravings. 

When a cab finally pulled up Coulson slipped into the back and instructed the driver to take him to Pym’s, all thoughts of smoking men vanishing from his thoughts. Hank Pym had been a bootlegger back during prohibition, it had amassed him quite a bit of money and quite a bit of connections although he had never sought either. In truth, Pym was a scientist who just couldn’t hack it. He was a jack of all trades and a master of none, which meant he could have made good money working _for_ someone but never on his own, which unfortunately went against Pym’s very nature. Fortunately for him Janet van Dyne had made his acquaintance and the young socialite had turned a possible pauper into an underground dispenser of all things alcoholic. Janet was really the master behind Pym’s rise and when the dispensation of alcohol became legal again Janet (a new woman if there ever was one) married Hank and set about running the man’s life.

Pym’s was no longer the hole in the wall it once was, hidden behind Janet van Dyne’s clothing shop, but instead a thriving well-lit watering hole with a bouncer and a line, Coulson easily bypassed the line and bouncer.

He, after all, was on the list.

Even as young as the afternoon was the line was long and the bar was full, men and women sat at tables chatting, dressed in their best. Some of them had obviously been out all night before and were only just finishing up, a few were just as obviously only now starting to party. Coulson didn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he passed socialites and businessmen on his way to the back room. A few of the wait staff stared at him curiously, which he ignored, just as many gave him a nod of recognition, those he returned. He took the set of stairs carefully hidden just inside of the kitchen up to Janet Pym’s office, and then he knocked, and then he waited.

While the name on all the bills might say ‘Henry’ everyone knew that the person in the head office was ‘Janet’.

“Phil!” Janet’s harried expression morphed into a smile the minute the door was open enough to see Coulson’s face. He returned her smile with a small one of his own and nodded his head in greeting. “Come in, what brings you around today?”

Janet’s smile was as wide and sparkling as the ring on her finger and the jewels around her neck. Coulson took the seat across from her desk when she motioned to it and waited for her to sit as well. She did so elegantly, her shoulders dwarfed by the large armchair in which she set and her legs crossed delicately at the ankle under the desk. “You’re not here to warn me about another gang war, are you?” An action that had indebted Coulson to Janet and had given him a reputation among the Olympian family. 

Coulson shook his head. “Not yet at least, I’m looking for information. Have you heard anything about Thor Odinson?” 

“Heard anything?” Janet swirled one hand in the air her fingers slightly curled. “Phil, no one’s heard anything about Thor since his brother took over the family business. Everyone believes he’s dead.” Coulson didn’t say anything, he knew the trick here was to wait. “Although, there have been rumors that Loki has been a little…” Janet leaned forward, her elbows hit the desk and she knit her fingers together neatly under her chin. “Unhinged?”

His lips twitched slightly with his deadpan rebuttal. “Loki was always unhinged.” 

Janet laughed and sat back in her seat. “Too true. Still, from the rumors that have passed through these doors,” and only the most authentic rumors ever did pass those doors, “something has upset Loki a great deal, also,” and this was the reason he came to Janet, Jan always knew, “Sif is back in town.”

Involuntarily, Coulson raised an eyebrow. “The Lady Sif?” Sif had been one of the Aesir gang’s most heavy hitting and most underestimated enforcers. She was mean with a knife, meaner with her fists, and had a good steady hand with a gun. She and Thor had been an on-again-off-again item in the underworld, although how much of that was rumor and supposition and how much of that was truth was debatable, never –the-less, Sif had been close to Thor, close enough to go after him when Loki had become All-father. “She wasn’t arrested, was she?”

“For breathing?” Jan made another of those curled fingers hand waves; Coulson tracked it by the glitter of her large diamond ring. The wedding band was a simple gold in comparison to the glittering diamond of her engagement ring, but Coulson was sure that Hank Pym had spared no expense on that either. “No. I saw her two nights ago, she came in with a group of Olympians.”

Years of working as a PI had numbed Phil to the local mob, but numb was not ignorant. The Aesir and Olympians had been cagey allies decades ago but there had been hope that the strange friendship between Hercules (heir apparent) and Thor would bridge that gap in years to come. Loki’s ascension to leadership had put the kibosh on such plans and had actually driven an even larger wedge between the two groups. If Sif was working for or with the Olympians it could mean many things, foremost of which was trouble.

“Thank you, Jan.” Coulson stood and offered Janet his hand, she shook it gracefully, “This is why I will always come to you.”

“For you, Phil,” Janet gestured around her office, “my door is always open.” 

Coulson smiled, murmured a few pleasantries, and saw himself out.


	3. Cain and Abel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil accepts a ride home from a man who is not quite a stranger (although he is strange) and finds that someone else has followed him home as well.

He wasn’t terribly surprised when half a block from the club he spotted an expensive black car. Like he’d said earlier, years of working as a detective had numbed him to the local mob scene but there was no way he thought he could work this case and _not_ run into one of them. He already knew that Sif was in town and running with the Greeks and then there was the fact that he was chasing the lost Aesir heir… Not to mention the fact that he and Loki had a standing arrangement. Their arrangement went a little like this; Loki didn’t go after he and his and he didn’t go after Loki. Not like one man against the Aesir would have done too much damage but Coulson had accrued enough favors and information that taking down Loki would at least not be a problem. Oddly, Coulson would never have considered such actions against Odin or even Thor.

Then again, he’d never met Odin or Thor.

The car rolled to a stop and the back door opened, Coulson was utterly unsurprised to see Loki sitting there dressed in his usual three piece suit with a scarf wrapped around his neck. The long green scarf might be sartorially applicable but the weather was beginning to get too warm for it. “Detective, would you care for a ride?”

If Coulson was honest the reason he had taken a walk instead of immediately hailing a cab was because he wanted to speak with the All-father of the Aesir. “I don’t accept rides from strange men, Mister Odinnson, but thank you for the offer.” A thug pushed open the front passenger door and stepped out, his bulk was meant to be threatening as was the ‘subtle’ way he flashed his gun.

“Phil, I think we know each other too well for you to consider me strange and really, I insist.” Loki patted the seat next to him and the muscle took a step closer. Phil sighed, as if he was being entirely too put upon, and climbed into the car. As soon as the car began moving again Loki focused his intense gaze on Coulson’s face. “I hear you’re looking for my brother.”

“I hear your brother’s missing.” He countered blandly. He got no reaction from Loki, no widening of eyes or even a shift in his posture, again, Coulson was not surprised. Loki no doubt knew more about Thor’s disappearance than Coulson did although Coulson doubted Loki himself was behind it. The man could be subtle when he wanted but when it came to his brother he had a tendency to go overboard.

If he had found out that Thor was married Mrs. Foster would never have set foot in Coulson’s office, she would have been dead. “I do hope Mrs. Foster is alright.” 

A twitch appeared in Loki’s cheek. “My brother’s wife is… fine, but it’s not her health I wish to discuss with you detective. I want to hire your services.” Before, Loki had offered Coulson money to back off of a case. Coulson had turned him down and set about exposing a prostitution ring that Loki had actually had nothing to do with but was instead run by a rival faction that Loki had wanted out of his city, the bribe had been a means to push Coulson even further into the case and it had worked. It had made Coulson wary of any attempt from Loki to bribe him. “Not like that, detective, I want you to continue working this case but I want you to report to _me_ and not…” The twitch got worse and Loki’s mouth twisted into a sneer, “my brother’s wife.” 

Coulson watched the scenery whiz by then, scenery as familiar to him as the back of his hand. “I accepted the job from Mrs. Foster, Loki, and I will continue to search for her husband for her. If, after I have discovered Thor’s location, Mrs. Foster choses to share the information with you that is between the two of you.” He looked at Loki, who had stopped twitching, and did his best to make his words sink in. “And I think if she turned up dead her husband would be _very_ upset.” 

“If he’s still alive.” Loki waved a hand in the air. “Alright, detective, but don’t hesitate to ask for a favor or two. He is my brother, after all, and having you in my debt would be… pleasant.” 

The smile Loki leveled him was certainly _un_ pleasant. The car rolled up to the curb outside of his office building and the muscle from before stepped out to open Coulson’s door. First class service, all the way. 

“I’ll be seeing you.” Loki nodded at him before the door closed and cut off Coulson’s view. Coulson continued to watch as the car rolled down the street until it turned a corner and disappeared from sight. With a sigh Coulson ran a hand through his thinning hair, there were reasons he was losing his hair and Loki Odinnson would certainly be one of them. He turned to head back into his building and realized, belatedly, that the smoking man from before was gone. Why he would have thought the other man would still be there Coulson could not say, especially since he had never seen the man before that morning. 

The trip up to his office was short and after he checked to be sure that nothing in the office had been touched, moved, or messed with since he left he locked up and headed back downstairs. There was nothing more he could do that day except canvas the city and the sky was already growing dark, working over his other informants would have to wait until tomorrow. The walk to his apartment was short, no need for a cab, and Coulson nodded to those he knew on the street until he reached the slightly dingy door to his slightly rundown apartment building. The foyer smelled strongly of cabbage, a smell which only grew in intensity until he passed the third floor where Mrs. MacDonald was no doubt making stew… again. There had, of course, been complaints leveled against the smell but since the superintendent was very fond of the leftovers that Mrs. MacDonald would give him there was no helping it. Coulson himself did not mind the smell of cabbage.

On the fifth floor Coulson paused. His apartment was midway down the hall and there was a mysterious figure leaning to the wall next to his door, a man wearing a long overcoat with a cigarette dangling diffidently from his fingers.

“I rarely allow my work to follow me home.” Coulson said, mildly, when he had reached his door and drawn level with the other man. Slightly younger, as Coulson had guessed, and handsome in an odd way. His nose was too large and his eyes too sloe-eyed for him to be considered ‘classically’ handsome but there was still something about him that screamed ‘attractive’. Coulson could not place his finger on it. 

“I’m kind of like a puppy that way, Detective Coulson.” The man dropped his cigarette onto the ground and crushed it beneath his heel before he offered Coulson a hand. “Clint Barton, U.S. Marshal. May I come in?”

Coulson considered Barton for a second, the man continued to smile and no doubt do his best to look unthreatening, before he unlocked his apartment door and waved the man inside.


	4. Looking for a Good Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marshal makes his case and coffee is shared.

“Do you want coffee?” Coulson asks after he closes the door behind Marshal Barton. His apartment is best described as ‘matchbook’ sized, when he had lowered his fold up bed from the wall the foot of it reached the edge of the door, to the right of the door was his tiny walk-in bathroom, more of a closet with a toilet and shower stall than a true bathroom, and his kitchen was squeezed along the far wall. He had room for a couch which, if he needed it to, would fold out into another bed. Coulson had put up guests now and again and they had always found the convenience of rolling straight out of bed into the kitchen very… well, convenient. Almost everything was a shade of beige, from the floors, to the walls, to the counter tops and the sheets on Coulson’s bed. Beige was a good color for a rundown apartment, it was the kind of color you were never sure if it was clean or dirty.

The whole apartment was spotless but you would never know it.

“Coffee?” Barton stuck his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and rocked back on his heels. He was standing in the middle of Coulson’s apartment, right where the bedroom became the living room. “Coffee sounds good, I’m probably looking at a late night.” 

Barton looked out of place in the center of Coulson’s spotless, carefully arranged beige matchbox. It was not that he was a shock of color, his overcoat blended into the walls and his hair was about the same shade as Coulson’s countertops. The dark suit he wore underneath his coat could have been hung up next to Coulson’s own. It was that he was rounded. His nose was rounded with a slight upturn and his shoulders, despite being powerfully built, slumped slightly. When Barton shrugged off his coat and held it over one arm Coulson could not help but notice that his derriere was rounded as well.

Coulson cleared his throat and turned to his percolator, measuring out coffee and setting the water to boil was not a time consuming task so soon Coulson turned his attention back to Barton. “Was there anything you wanted to know, Marshal?” 

Barton wandered around Coulson’s den, the length of his stride meant it took two steps for him to reach the end of Coulson’s apartment. He turned to look at Coulson, who leaned back against his beige countertops, before he grinned. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

There is an ashtray on Coulson’s small side table, a remnant of when Coulson used to smoke instead of eating, Barton nods at it and Coulson bites back a sigh. The apartment is small and he only has one widow for ventilation, the window doesn’t open more than six inches and the temperature outside is nippy. “Be my guest.” 

There’s the snap and flare of a lighter, silver and engraved, before Barton takes a seat on Coulson’s couch and lets out a lung full of smoke. “That’s better. Are you going to take a seat, detective?” 

There are two options of seating in the apartment, the couch or a small wooden stool that Coulson generally only uses when he feels the need to dust the corners of the ceiling. The third option of ‘the bed’ does not even enter into Coulson’s frame of mind. Coulson dragged the step stool over so he could sit in front of Barton. Barton shook his head, grin now salted with chagrin, before he tapped his cigarette against the ash tray.

“I’m looking for a woman.” Barton paused, Coulson nodded, and silence filled the apartment. Coulson’s best guess would be that Barton expected him to supply information, or at least ask a question, but Coulson merely waited. “…she calls herself Sif.”

“Marshal,” Coulson had instincts and his instincts told him that there was far more to this than a U.S. marshal investigating a mobster. Why come to him? Why his apartment instead of his office? If Barton had trailed him earlier that day he could have asked Janet these same questions (not that she would have answered them) or gathered information from Pym’s clientele (who would have provided a myriad of different answers). “All I know about Sif is that she’s back in town.”

Another tap of the cigarette, another long slow drag and smokey exhale. Barton’s eyes were a queer shade of green-blue that not even the haze of smoke could dim. “I know that, detective, I tracked her all the way from Chicago.” Barton’s grin was quick-silver and white, an abnormality for a smoker. “What I want to know is why and who she’s running with, the way I hear it, you’re the kind of guy who can tell me that.” 

“There really isn’t much to tell.” Coulson unbuttoned his suit coat and let it fall open. He wanted to undo his tie and roll up his sleeves but he could not stand to be that informal in front of a man he did not know. “My sources inform me that she has had meetings with the Olympian family but one meeting does not mean she is joining them.” One meeting could mean anything, especially with Thor’s disappearance tied into this mess. He thought, briefly, about informing the Marshal of the potential trouble within the ranks of New York’s organized crime but then decided against it. Thor’s disappearance was his case, brought to him by Mrs. Foster.

Barton did not appear to buy it. He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, his cigarette clutched carefully with the fingers of his left hand. “That can’t be everything you know, the local P.D. would be able to give me more than that.” 

Mentions of his old employer never sat well with Coulson. “They might be able to.”

The smell of coffee was what stopped Coulson from throwing Barton out of his apartment right then and there. Instead he pushed his stool back and turned to take the percolator off of the stove. The coffee cups he pulled out were plain white bone china, he had inherited them from his mother. After he poured he set two cups, and saucers, on the table between Barton and himself. Barton stubbed the last of his cigarette out into the ash tray and picked up the coffee cup with a careful grip. The mug was not the most delicate Coulson had ever seen but it seemed extremely fragile in Barton’s calloused hand. 

“This is good.” Barton said after one sip. 

“Thank you.” The act of pouring the coffee had calmed him, Coulson took a sip himself. It was not the best cup of coffee he had ever made, it was in fact slightly over done, but it was a better cup of coffee than anything you could find at a diner. “Marshal, I’m going to say this once, anything I know about Lady Sif can be found by talking to the local police force _but_ the last time I checked the local police force was riddled with officers who were in the pocket of one mob family or another.” The local police force had the kind of morality one found in Swiss cheese, smelly and full of holes.

Barton nodded, like he expected that. Since Barton had come to him for information and there was the insinuation that he had not yet contacted the police, Coulson had to assume the man knew just how many pies the local mobs had their fingers in. “So, are you going to give me more to go on than ‘she’s in town’, Coulson?”

Coulson hesitated. It was noticeable, Barton noticed and his eyes narrowed, but Coulson had not attempted to hide it. “I’m working on a case right now, it might be tied to Sif’s reappearance but right now it’s all circumstantial. Sif used to run with Thor, the son of the former All-father, and when Loki took over she left town. Thor and Hercules were close.” 

If Barton was confused as to who Coulson was referring to he did not show it. He was not writing the information down either; Coulson wondered how he planned to retain it. “But Thor’s dead.”

Coulson nodded. “So they say.” He met Barton’s gaze.

Slowly, Barton set down his half-full cup. It clinked when it hit the fine china of its matching saucer. “Thank you for your time, detective, and for the information. If I need any more help I’ll contact you.”

Coulson stood with Barton and escorted the man to the door. “Next time, marshal, please call on me at my office instead of standing outside smoking.”

Barton touched the brim of an imaginary hat and flashed that white toothed grin. “I suppose I’ll have to find some other way to summon up my courage, then.” Coulson watched Barton walk down the hall to the stairs and disappear. Coulson shook his head and stepped back into his apartment. It was only after he closed and locked his door that he noticed Barton had forgotten his overcoat, it lay where Barton had tossed it, carelessly crumpled over the arm of Coulson’s couch.


	5. What's the Story, Morning Glory?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson takes Maria out to dinner and pumps her for information. No other pumping happens at all.

The morning dawned bright and clear, the kind of morning that early risers no doubt dreamed of. Coulson was an early riser by habit, not by choice, but his apartment allowed him little light. He saw enough of the morning sky to note how cloudless and cheerful it was, but he knew better. The weather was not to last. Clouds had begun to gather by the time Coulson left the apartment, a plain black umbrella hooked on one arm, fog rolled in as well and shortly after that a steady driving rain began to hammer the city’s streets. When Coulson got out of the cab the slate sidewalks were slippery enough to kill a man. Coulson walked through the chilly rain with his umbrella held high and folded it up before he pulled the door open and slipped into the lobby. 

“Nice day, isn’t it?” The receptionist greeted him with a smile, it was a small smile, slightly forced but not entirely so. It was not the kind of smile you gave to just any old stranger but rather to an acquaintance you were familiar but not terribly friendly with. Coulson, all too aware of the purpose behind his visit and the lies he lived in order to get into the building, smiled a similar smile right back. “Should I tell her you’re coming up, Phil?”

“Do you think she would appreciate the surprise?” Coulson asked after he set his umbrella in the umbrella stand. He racked his brain for the receptionist’s name since she clearly remembered his. Sally, wasn’t it? Yes, Sally Blevins. “I would appreciate if you would notify my fiancée, Ms. Blevins.”

Maneuvering his way through the building wasn’t hard. Three flights of stairs later (Coulson disdained elevators) he was standing in an unmarked hallway outside of a door that looked just like every other door. He took the time to take off his overcoat and straighten his tie. He wished, vaguely and halfheartedly, that he had brought flowers or perhaps something to set in the retiring room for the girls to all share. Chocolates. Next time, he decided, but he knew that by ‘next time’ he would have forgotten. Prepped, Coulson gripped the handle and entered mayhem.

The room was filled with switchboards and switchboard operators, all of them chatting and plugging away. He received a few glances from the girl’s nearest the door, some of whom he recognized, and waited for the one woman he had come for to lift her head. Maria connected one more call before she stood and gave him a nod. Then she motioned for another young woman to take her spot, had a few words with her that Coulson didn’t hear, and headed across the room. Coulson offered Maria his arm and she linked hers lightly with his, before the door shut Coulson heard a few giggles and the word ‘engaged’.

“Where would you like to go to lunch?” Maria questioned as they walked down the hall. “And I assume this is not just a social visit.”

“Nothing I wish to discuss in public.” Coulson said before they stepped into the elevator and made small talk. What the weather was like, how Maria’s day had been, how Coulson’s parents were, Maria chatted a little about fashion which neither Coulson nor the elevator lift operator cared about (they exchanged a manly glance just before the elevator doors opened and Maria and Coulson stepped out). Coulson shrugged into his overcoat while Maria belted her own and then both of them picked up umbrellas from the umbrella stand.

Their cab ride was mostly silent. Maria stared out her rain spotted window and Coulson stared out his as well. They looked, for all intents and purposes, like a couple who had just had a spat. Not that it was purposeful but there was only so much small talk he and Maria could take.

The restaurant was nice and only half-full. Coulson slipped a few bills from his retainer into the manager’s palm and they were lead to a semi-closed off table. Coulson waited until the waiter had come around for the first round of questions (water was ordered as well as a pot of tea) before he brought up the topic at hand.

“I need to know if you have heard anything.”

Maria did not even look up from the menu; her finger lightly traced the calligraphy within. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, Phil, you know I hear a lot of things.” Maria glanced at him with a half smirk and Coulson bit back a sigh.

“Thor Odinnson has gone missing.” 

Maria closed the menu and laced her fingers on top. “Odinnson went missing years ago, everyone knows that.” But her expression had turned serious. 

“He just became another person.” Coulson tapped his fingers against his menu and did a quick glance around to be sure that the waiter was not arriving back quite yet. “Thor Foster.”

Maria frowned and opened her mouth to say something but then glanced to her right. The waiter appeared with their tea and water, took their order, and then vanished again. “Foster is a name I have been hearing. There has been a lot of gossip about a wife with a missing husband.” 

Operators might not hear everything and they might not be supposed to listen in on certain calls but that did not mean they wouldn’t. And women, when they had a good story to tell, gossiped. It was why Coulson kept in touch with Maria and the two of them put up the ridiculous charade of being engaged. It provided Maria with a good cover story for Coulson’s visits as well as a cover for her lack of interest in getting married. One of these days either the would have to tie the fictional knot or Maria would have to break off the engagement. Coulson was sure Maria already had a reasonable reason for it, catching him cheating perhaps.

Coulson took a sip of the water and pulled out his casebook. “Loki was aware his brother was missing but did not discourage me from looking.” Except for a few near threats and the attempt to buy Coulson off anyway. “No chatter from that end?”

“The Aesir are circumspect over what is said over telephone lines.” Maria shrugged, an in-elegant movement that tugged at the starched lines of her dress. While many of the telephone operators dressed comfortably, if professionally, Maria always looked ready to step out. Coulson knew she could also lay him out if she so chose, even in heels Maria had a mean right hook. “I did hear that Sif is in town again.”

“You didn’t happen to hear where, did you?” Coulson asked just as their meal arrived. Maria gave him that half-smirk again before she picked up her knife and fork.

“Would you be paying for this steak if I didn’t?”

The answer was, of course, that yes he would because Maria was an important informant. Maria, being one of the best informants Coulson had, knew exactly where Sif was staying. They took the same cab back to the telephone exchange and Maria left Coulson a little poorer in pocket but richer in information. Coulson belatedly remembered that he had wished to ask Maria if she heard anything about the marshal from last night but as he was halfway to the Waldorf-Astoria he decided it could wait for another day. Perhaps next time he would bring flowers.


	6. Put all the Blame on (Loki) Mame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson tracks down Sif and everyone in this story smokes. Everyone.

Coulson always felt underdressed in the ritzier portions of town. His outfit was pure private investigator which wasn’t all that different from the outfit of a police detective in street clothes. It meant a rumpled suit, a coat with occasional finger prints, and sometimes a hat. Coulson smoothed his suit down once before he stepped into the lobby of the Waldorf. The doorman gave him a look but the men and women bustling around the lobby hardly spared him a glance. He waited until the attendant was free before he approached the front desk.

“Would you please ring Sylvan Woods for me?” The front desk attendant looked nervous. He was a middle aged man who looked to have been in the hotel business for long enough to recognize the kind of VIP you did not ring up randomly. Coulson smiled blandly, he had perfected the bland smile years ago, just to watch the man sweat. “Tell her Coulson is here to talk to her, she’ll be expecting me.”

His tone reassured the attendant just enough that he picked up the house phone and made the call. Coulson kept his hands resting in his pockets and did not curl them into fists. The trick to pretending you belonged was to keep calm under any circumstances, until someone pointed a tommy gun at you anyway. Once that happened you were allowed a mild panic.

“She says to go on up… sir. Room 3201.”

“Thank you.”

The lobby was lavish, all marble, gilding and velvet curtains. Coulson glanced at the bar and was unsurprised to find beautiful young ladies serving posh men with cigars. He recognized a few faces, none of them friendly and thankfully none of them looking his way. He stepped into the elevator and let the operator pull the door shut. “Thirty second floor, please.” He told the man. The operator was slightly shorter than him, slightly slimmer too but around the same age, his head beneath the cap was bald and he squinted at Coulson slightly from behind coke bottle glasses. 

“Paying someone a visit?” The man asked as he pulled the gate shut and started the elevator up. It clanked slightly and Coulson attempted to cover up his dislike of the machines by leaning back against the railing.

“An old acquaintance.” Coulson volunteered with a thin smile. The squinter looked like he would have liked more information but Coulson kept his mouth sealed by that thin smile and the operator took the hint and asked no more questions. It was a quiet trip up.

The 32cnd floor looked exactly like any other floor at the hotel. Plush carpets, expensive wallpaper and lighting fixtures. Coulson was saved from having to check numbers as he wandered down the hallway by 3201 being the first room on the left. Coulson brushed off his front and adjusted his hat before he gave the door in front of him a brief knock. He was sure to stare straight into the peep hole although it was hard not to study the brass room number instead. When the door opened Coulson was surprised to see that it was Sif herself who had answered.

“Miss-” Sif waved her right hand in the air, a delicate drift of smoke following the movement.

“Don’t bother with the formalities, detective.” Sif pushed the door further open and motioned for Coulson to enter her hotel room. Coulson hesitated briefly but the mob princess’ impatient look had him stepping inside without a third or fourth thought. 

But he did have that second one.

The door closed with a quiet click and then a chink and jingle as Sif slid the chain shut. “I gather you wanted to speak with me alone?” Sif brushed past him and motioned to two chairs set across from each other. The hotel room was larger than Coulson’s apartment, three or four times larger perhaps. Coulson took a seat in one of the chairs and kept his eyes on Sif’s back as she moved around the room. She gathered a decanter of something golden and obviously alcoholic and set it on a table between the chairs, then she sat herself down with an elegant tumble of limbs. It was always an experience to watch Sif move, she was athletic and graceful in equal measure and deadly 100% of the time. Her preferred method of dealing with the people who would oppose her was a swift knife in a dark alley but guns were not out of the question. Even in the outfits that she wore that shocked the public could hide a knife or small gun and she could have hidden a number of weapons around the room. 

Sif bit down on the tip of her cigarette holder before she gave Coulson a smile and wrapped her lips delicately around the barely there tube and took a deep inhale. “Detective,” she exhaled a stream of smoke, “why are you here?”

Coulson took his hat off and set it on the arm of the chair before he unbuttoned his suit jacket and leaned forward, his elbows rested on his knees and his chin on his linked fingers. “I’m here because of Thor.”

Sif snorted and glanced to his right. She had large dark eyes and she wore a headband with stylized wings on the side, it trapped her long black hair so it flowed straight down her back. Her headband was silver and her dress; red with white edging. “I know that his wife hired you, Jane told us.” Coulson presumed that ‘us’ meant Sif, Hogun, Fandral, and Volstagg, Thor’s brothers in arms and compatriots in crime. It could mean whatever group the four of them were working for or with as well. “There’s nothing you can do, detective, we know the perpetrator already.”

Sif’s next breath of smoke was violently done and she stabbed at the air with her cigarette holder. “If that snake thinks that he can just get away with killing Thor-” 

“I don’t believe Loki did it.” Coulson interjected before Sif could begin to rant. The Aesir had a tendency to rant, ramble, and rave if given the chance. Coulson had been subjected to more than one monologue by a suspect in custody and he knew better than to let them get started. “He seemed as concerned about his brother as Mrs. Foster did.” 

Sif leaned forward to tap her cigarette against the ash tray. “Would you like a drink, detective?” She opened up the crystal decanter and poured herself a generous glass but then she bottled it up again when Coulson declined. “You know just as well as many other that Loki is a treacherous, lying, guttersnipe.” She took a deep drink from her tumbler, hardly lady-like at all and rather reminiscent of Tony Stark, but then she coughed and set the glass down. “He couldn’t tell the truth to save his own life much less to save Thor’s.”

“Or to stop a gang war?” There was no easy way to sidle up to that subject and even his abrupt question did not illicit more than a slight twitch from Sif.

“He would lie through his teeth to stop a war but tell the truth… _never_.” Sif stroked her thigh, not nervously, but soothingly. Coulson was sure at least one knife lay under the lush red fabric of her skirt. “Hercules has been pushing for this fight since Loki dethroned Thor, it has been a long time coming.”

Coulson nodded. He could attest to street fights between the two, to a low thrum of tension that simmered through the day and erupted in the worst parts of town in the deep of night. Some things you could ignore, some things the police could cover up but eventually something would give. “So you’ll use Thor as an excuse.”

“Thor is dead.” Sif stubbed her cigarette out and stood, violently, her dress a whirl of fabric around her ankles and her eyes blazing. “He was dead the moment he went missing. Loki has always wished to kill his brother and he finally has.” She planted her hands on the arms of the chair Phil sat in and leaned in close, her breath smelled of whiskey and cigarettes. “I will not leave his death unavenged.”

Coulson looked down his nose at Sif’s teeth, they were too close to the tip of his nose for his own comfort. Then he met her gaze. “I’ll make inquiries elsewhere, then.” 

Sif let out a huff of laughter and pulled back. “You do that, detective, and I hope you find something that will give Jane some peace… because I can promise you, you will not find Thor.”


	7. Chekov's Overcoat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson returns home to find his apartment not as he left it.

Seeing as his big leads had not paid off Coulson spent the following day canvassing the city. He made calls to the right people and paid visits (literally paid) to those snitches who operated on ground level. No one had heard anything useful about Thor, no one had heard anything Coulson had not already gleaned for himself. It was frustrating, possibly even a little infuriating, but it was detective work.

The most useful advice had come from young Amadeus Cho, a smart kid who hung around on the outer edges of the Olympians. Rumor had it that Hercules was extremely fond of the kid. Rumor could be misleading but Coulson had seen one or two moments of unguarded affection between the two and Amadeus was too smart to let such a rumor make him a target (and any friend of Hercules was a target) without having the muscle to back up the threat it implied. Cho had been seated on a fire escape, his legs dangled down towards the ground and arms were hooked around the bars, his half feral puppy Kirby had been rooting around in the alleyway’s trash when Coulson had passed by. 

Amadeus had called out to him and once Coulson’s attention had been caught motioned that the man should come closer. Coulson did this carefully, well aware that approaching a young man in an alleyway was a good way to get yourself stabbed, Amadeus had just grinned at him and waited until he was close enough, then he had swung down from the fire escape. “I hear you’re looking for Thor, mister.”

“I am.” Coulson watched as Amadeus picked Kirby up and half-heartedly attempted to keep the dog from licking his face. He didn’t ask how Amadeus had heard, Coulson didn’t doubt that almost everyone knew by now. He hadn’t been subtle about his inquiries and too many big leaguers were interested in his investigation. “Do you know anything about his whereabouts?” 

Amadeus scratched the back of Kirby’s head and then looked up at Coulson. There was about a foot and a half of difference between them, Coulson was by no means a tall man but Amadeus had yet to hit the teenage stage where he would shoot up like a weed. “Just thought I should tell you to check the hospitals and morgues.” With that bit of advice he had rushed past Coulson and disappeared into the pedestrian traffic that always crowded the sidewalk. Some days Coulson wondered how there could be so many people out on the street and yet so many more stuck inside in the offices.

Coulson waited at an intersection for the traffic to slow to a stop and scuffed his foot over a wad of dried gum stuck to the sidewalk. He was returning to his apartment with nothing but Amadeus’ advice and the vague murmurs of unrest. No one wanted a gang war, not the people working in the office buildings or those who gathered on the street to form the crowds Coulson had to push through daily, not Amadeus or the snitches who whispered to Coulson with ill-smelling breath, not the drunks or the policemen who stood on the corners. No one wanted a gang war except for those in charge and what they wanted they generally got. With such thoughts swirling around his mind Coulson almost missed the police gathered outside of his apartment building. 

“You working this case, Coulson?” The beat cop stationed at the door asked. Coulson took a minute from his musings to stare into the man’s face (Patrick Cale, good kid, had just started working when Coulson left so how did he know his name?) before glancing up at the building. Cale did not try to stop him when Coulson walked past without answering and headed for the stairs. That was the problem with being a private detective, when you showed up at a crime scene everyone assumed you were working it.

“Hey, it’s Coulson!” Called out a police officer when Coulson stepped out onto his floor. Coulson spared the man a quick glance before he headed for his apartment, the door was open and already roped off with police tape. “Hey, buddy, can’t let you go there. Active crime scene…”

“That’s my apartment.” Coulson told the idiot who was trying to stop him. He somehow wasn’t surprised when Clint Barton, U.S. Marshal stepped out of his apartment. “Marshal.” 

“Coulson.” Barton grinned at him but the smile did not quite reach his eyes. “You wouldn’t know why two members of the Russian mob would choose to toss your apartment, would you?” Barton was dressed in a light grey suit this time, his hat dangled from his fingers and his overcoat, the one he had forgotten in Coulson’s apartment, was tossed over a crooked elbow. Coulson glanced the man up and down and then looked past him into his apartment. His view was obscured, partially by the angle and partially by Barton’s body and the bodies of the police bustling around the small apartment. He could just make out one pair of shoes, pointed towards the ceiling, and a thickly built arm lying beside them, its fingers loosely curled. 

“I suspect for much the same reason you would.” Barton’s smile doesn’t widen, doesn’t reach his eyes, the man looks like he didn’t even hear the accusation in Coulson’s words. It is how Coulson knows he won a point. The police officer who had been prepped to hold him away backs off and Coulson feels no pity for the man.

“I just came to retrieve my coat!” Barton proclaims innocently and he rustles the coat over his arm like it gives him a legitimate reason. It does, actually, Coulson can already see the scenario in his mind. “I noticed your door had been forced,” and Coulson doubts the Russians were being very quiet as they made a mess of his tiny apartment, “and thought I would settle the problem before you could come home. I’d hate to see you roughed up by thugs like that.” 

“I’ve faced down worse.” Coulson crossed his arms and tries not to feel tired but he is sure it must show. He is tired, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, and now his apartment is a crime scene. It is not too late, he can call a friend and ask if he could spent a night or two on their couch, but he has a feeling that the crime scene his apartment has become will not be resolved so soon.

“That’s not just idle boasting.” Came a familiar voice from the stairwell behind him. Coulson turned, unsurprised to find himself looking up into the face of his former boss and former partner. Nick Fury smiled, a razor sharp shark’s smile that could fill a rookie detective’s veins with ice water. He was dressed in all black, as was his style, a deep black suit and an even blacker overcoat. He’d often say to Phil that he was trying to make a statement, what the statement was Coulson could only guess at. “Phil.”

“Commissioner.” Fury’s smile fades into a professional mask and Coulson almost feels bad. Years ago, when Fury lost his eye and Coulson lost his job, they made a pact and both of them then had to make a decision. Fury’s has taken him to the top, Coulson isn’t even on the ladder anymore. Fury brushes past him, his overcoat flapped from the movement and made him seem like an overgrown bat, Coulson took a step to the side and leaned back against the wall. It allowed him a slightly better view of the apartment as well, after Fury pushed Barton out of the way. Coulson catalogued what he could and then, before Barton or Fury could turn their attention back to him, turned and headed down the stairs. His case books he kept on his person but there were items he kept in his office which he would not like to end up in the hands of either the Russians or Barton and company. 

With that in mind, and mindful of the fact that he kept his gun locked up at his office, Coulson hailed a cab and hurtled into the night.


	8. Broken Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson's office is just as trashed as his apartment and his confusion mounts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it should be noted, if no one else has clued in, that this is the least historically accurate noir piece EVER. That being said, no progress is made this entire chapter.

Coulson was unsurprised to see that the lock on his office had been broken and the door had been kicked in. He _was_ surprised to see Luke Cage loitering outside of it. Cage and his partner, Danny Rand, ran a private detective firm just down the hall. They called themselves the Heroes for Hire, which Coulson had once thought rather presumptive of them but had since then seen them in action. Cage and Rand were dedicated to helping out anyone, even if ‘anyone’ had to figure out an alternative means of payment when their bank account fell short. They worked a lot of cases with the help of Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law. 

“Cage.”

“Coulson.” Cage nodded towards Coulson’s busted in door. “Fun case?”

“It’s picking up.” Coulson stepped past Cage into his office, with a growing sense of dread he flipped the switch for the lights.

The filing cabinets he kept case files or pertinent research had been rifled through, one had been tipped over and lay on its side on the floor, drawers half pulled out. Coulson carefully stepped over the threshold, he was careful not to step on any of his papers. The light cast everything with a yellow pall, flickered, and died with a ‘ping’. Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, when he opened them his office was lit in a faint semi-circle that barely extended past the doorway. The windows that, despite copious amounts of elbow-grease and soap, Coulson could never get clean allowed the faintest glimmer from the pink neon sign of the diner to filter through, it added more shadow than actual light. Coulson shuffled forward, paper shifted under his feet, something crunched and when he reached the corner of his desk Coulson stepped on something glass.

He sighed.

“Want any help?” Cage asked, he stood just outside of the doorway on the opposite side from the light but he was a big man, some of his shadow still fell into the room. Coulson suspected that Cage had always been big but the man seemed to pride himself on keeping fit. By form he was a brawler and that while was how he built his muscle and his reputation it wasn’t in the dingy, brutal cage matches held by those who yearned for more bloodshed than boxing could provide but in the alleys of the city as he protected those who could not protect themselves. “Coulson?”

Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose again. A headache was starting to form and it would not help his mood at all. “You wouldn’t happen to have a flashlight, would you?”

Shadows filled the room when Cage shrugged. “Let me check. DANNY.”¬¬¬

“WHAT?”

Coulson found the edge of his desk with his fingers and leaned back against it. He surveyed what he could of his office while his headache slowly built and rage began to turn his stomach sour. The desecration of his privacy had to do with the Thor case, he was sure of it, primarily because it was the only case he was currently working on. His office had been rummaged through before, you weren’t a real private detective until your office was tossed over at least once, and his life was threatened on a regular basis but no one had ever taken the time to invade his apartment before. The invasion plus the destruction of his office and the lack of clues for the case left Coulson frustrated.

“DO WE HAVE A FLASHLIGHT?”

What did two dead Russians have to do with anything? He could understand if the Aesir or Olympians had taken it upon themselves to send him a message. Loki, however, would have sent such a message personally and he certainly would never have outsourced to a rival group, neither would Sif. Hercules was not known for his subtlety and for a mob boss was actually relatively likable. What did all this mean? It meant that Coulson was back to square one.

“What do you need a, oh, hey Coulson.” Danny Rand waved at Coulson from outside the room, a flashlight held in his waving hand. “I guess I see why you needed a flashlight.” 

Coulson was careful when he walked back to the door. The last thing he needed was for an unseen obstacle to have him stumble and fall, unless he felt like pushing past a police barrier or dealing with Fury the likelihood of him wearing a fresh suit for tomorrow depended on whether Coulson felt like spending money when the shops opened and how willing he was to buy off the rack. “Thank you, Rand.”

Danny handed over the flashlight with an easy smile. “I’ve told you to call me Danny.” Then Rand winked.

Coulson ignored the flirting, or at least what he assumed was flirting, just as he had ignored Rand’s flirting ever since he and Luke had set up shop down the hall. The relationship between Rand and Cage was a confusing one, it was impossible to miss how close the two men were but at the same time their relationship straddled a confusing line between friendship and the possibility of something more. There were times when Rand and Cage were quite obviously flirting with each other but then Coulson would see one or the other on the arm of an attractive young woman, and of course there was the fact that Rand would flirt with _him_.

Not that he was invested in the potential love lives of men who worked in the same building as he did.

…not at all. 

“I prefer Rand.” Which got him a blinding smile from Rand and earned Rand a shove in the shoulder from Cage.

“Call us if you need help shoving that door into place.” Cage shoved at Rand’s shoulder again, a push that directed the blond back down the hallway. “We’re going to be here most of the night.”

“Again, thank you.” Coulson thumbed the flashlight on but he lingered in the doorway of his office.

“Any time!” Rand shouted over Cage’s shoulder before being pushed into their office.

“Why don’t you ask if he wants to borrow a cup of sugar while you’re at it, Danny?” Luke questioned, too loudly, before the door on their office fully shut. Coulson shook his head, he really should not get distracted. Then he shown the flashlight over the detritus covering his floor and got to work cleaning up. Maybe the destruction would offer him a clue as to what the Russians, if they had been the ones to ransack his office, had been looking for.

What had Agent Barton been looking for in his apartment?

Coulson skimmed several case reports before beginning to make stacks of them, his mind wandering.

Agent Barton had been interested in Sif. He had come to Coulson for information on Sif and cited Coulson’s superior knowledge of the city and it’s underworld as to why. Coulson had just accepted the job when he first spotted Barton, Sif had been in town for two nights. If Barton was following Sif’s trail it would make sense that he would be a little behind her… but he had not approached Coulson in his office. If Barton had been taking a smoke break, he had been smoking, and had missed a window of opportunity between Foster and Lewis’ appointment with him and his feet hitting the streets… possible, Barton tracking him back to his apartment may just be a sign of an over-eager law man. Coulson had worked with that type before, the kind of person who wasn’t likely to care about invading your personal space or private time because they thought you had something they needed.

Coulson shoved one pile over papers aside, old data, old cases, nothing to do with his current one, any defacement was done from the grind of heels walking over paper and wasn’t purposeful. 

Barton could consider him a suspect. Sif had been acquainted with Foster and Lewis’, whatever reason Barton had to be hot on Sif’s trail could be tied to them as well. Thor had been keeping his nose clean, however, it was unlikely he would have allowed his wife to become entangled in something illegal.

Barton had left his coat behind as a reason to return to Coulson’s apartment, there was no doubt in Coulson’s mind that it had been a setup, but Coulson was unsure if Barton had been expecting the Russians or not. 

What _did_ the Russians have to do with any of this? Were they aware of the gang war brewing? Possibly, probably. But what did they get out of trashing Coulson’s office?

Hours later Coulson decided that whatever the Russians had gained it was certainly not information. None of his case files (which he kept meticulously organized) were missing, his list of contacts (informants names and information all in code) had been battered and scattered around the room but was intact. They hadn’t even bothered breaking into Coulson’s wall safe. Coulson slumped in his office chair, resigned, and within seconds had dropped off for an uneasy but much needed nap.


	9. Diner at the Edge of Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson wakes up to an unexpected, but pleasantly so, visitor, gets invited to a ball and eats breakfast with Barton.

He woke, fuzzy headed and fuzzy mouthed, to the distinctive sound of a woman’s high heels tapping down the hall. The remembrance and haze of a dream lingered briefly in his mind (Barton’s eyes, a cloud of smoke, the taste of an ashy mouth and feel of rough fingers) before he shoved himself away from his desk and shook it off. A piece of paper was stuck to the side of his face, attached by his own drool, and Coulson peeled it away in disgust. There was sunlight filtering in through his windows now, he judged it to be early morning. Not too early, it was probably around 9 AM or so. Luke and Danny had no doubt headed home hours ago and decided not to wake Phil, Coulson was unsure whether to be grateful or disgruntled. He had needed the sleep but it would have done his back and neck much better if he had been woken hours earlier. With a grunt he stretched his arms over his head, joints popping slightly and his back cracking when he bent backwards.

A delicate knock interrupted the symphony of his aching bones. “Did I come at a bad time?” A familiar and utterly welcome voice asked. Coulson turned to see Pepper Potts standing in his doorway. She touched the door frame with the back of her knuckles before she stepped into his office, careful not to step on any stray papers he had missed the night before. She was an angel, a perfectly manicured and coiffed lady who had descended from on high to sail through the chaos of his office. Coulson rubbed one cheek and decided that as soon as he was finished speaking with Pepper he was going to go in search of coffee, he desperately needed it.

“Not a bad time, no,” Coulson hurried to clear off the chair in front of his desk and Pepper sat down on the slightly sagging cushion carefully. She wore a long jacket, almost a dress, with a high collar and a string of black pearl buttons down the front, it fell to her knees with two large, but clearly empty, pockets on the side, a black pencil skirt was just visible in the gap at the end. On top of her stylishly short red hair she wore a blue cap which she pulled off after she had seated herself. “And it is never a bad time for you, Pepper.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, Phil.” She reached over to touch his hand with hers, a brief grace of her fingers her way of greeting him. Then she cast a glance around his office. “You’re not in any trouble are you? You know you can come to me if you are.” 

Truly, Coulson did know. Pepper was one of the few people that he could, currently, count as a true friend and he would never stop to be thankful that she thought of him the same way. She was startlingly intelligent, as well as beautiful, and it was the first trait that had elevated her above the secretarial pool of Stark Industries (although it was no doubt the second which had caused Stark to notice her in the first place). While Coulson did not trust or like Stark he both trusted and liked the man’s personal assistant. Since they had met while Coulson was still on the force he was lucky that he had not alienated Pepper completely on their first meeting and since one of his first jobs as a private investigator had involved Stark Industries he was grateful that his poking around had in fact allowed them to develop a tentative friendship. Despite moving in different social circles and rarely having time they had somehow managed to keep in touch. 

“It’s just a case I’m working.” Coulson ran a hand through his hair and belatedly realized that it was a mess. He attempted to flatten it down but, from the amused look on Pepper’s face, it was a lost cause without a mirror. “Someone is trying to rattle my cage. But enough about me, since you’re here at the office I’m assuming it is business you want to discuss?” 

“It is.” Pepper opened up her clutch purse to pull out a delicate looking ivory envelope. “You know about the Stark Industries annual charity function, of course.”

“I know _of_ it.” Coulson admitted, he took the envelope and turned the embossed object over in his hands. “Is this an invitation?” 

“It is.” Pepper smiled; a wide smile that showed off perfectly white teeth and made her eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. “Tony is attempting to… I don’t want to say sabotage…”

“Go ahead and say it.” Coulson encouraged. He would never understand Pepper Potts’ taste in employers specifically and men in general, thus he encouraged each little foray into sassing Tony Stark that he could.

She laughed before she got herself under control. “Alright, sabotage. He’s quite unhappy with the commissioner right now, the mayor as well, so he has chosen to invite people he knows will upset the mayor and commissioner. Political rivals, dissidents, artists,” She wrinkled her nose slightly at the last one. “Since I know this is not exactly your cup of tea…”

“You thought I would take the invitation more seriously if you delivered it by hand.” It was true; if Coulson had received the invite in the mail he would have thought it was some joke of Starks. He pulled the invite free of the envelope and read the details. “This is rather last minute.”

“I wasn’t going to give you time to weasel out.” This time Pepper’s smile was slightly sheepish. “I also have had a hectic week, I did mean to get it to you sooner.” 

Coulson ran his finger along the edge of the invite. The charity ball was in two days and it would be filled with the movers and shakers of the city. Many of the local crime bosses would be invited, those who had legitimate cover operations of course. Loki would be there, Hercules might be there as well. The Russians… it was give or take, there was no unifying faction among the Russians and they wrestled over the city’s import business like schoolyard bullies. “I would love to attend.” It would be a chance to test the waters, anyway, and at the very least it would be free food and entertainment for the evening.

Coulson remembered that his apartment was probably currently cordoned off with police tape and that, despite the fact that Fury would know very well where to find him, no officer had shown up requesting a statement. Yes, if Stark wanted to irritate Fury, Coulson was up for it. 

“I’m so glad.” Pepper stood up and offered him her hand, instead of shaking it which she expected, he lifted it to his lips and planted a quick, shy kiss. “Oh, Phil. This year’s dance is going to be much more fun with you there. …should I send you a suit?” And once again her gaze swept over the office except this time it swept over him as well. “I know how well you take care of yours, of course…”

“Will I be required to give it back?” One thing that being a police detective and a private detective did not provide was nice suits. He lusted after those he saw in shop windows or draped over bankers, politicians and actors.

“I would consider it an insult if you did.” Pepper pecked him on his unshaven cheek before she turned to leave. “I’ll have it delivered tomorrow; I believe I still have your measurements, and Phil…” She turned to look to Phil over her shoulder, a quirk to her lips and a twinkle in her eyes, “you really should clean up, your office is beginning to look like Tony’s.”

Then, in a cloud of a delicate and clearly expensive floral perfume, she walked out of his office (but thankfully not out of his life). 

Coulson leaned against the edge of his desk and ran his fingers over the edge of the invite. The suit would be perfect, of course, and he was thankful he would not need to attend any hour long fittings. For all he knew Pepper had another suit made up for him after the last time (which had been a suit made up for him by Stark in reparation for damage done to Coulson’s person and payment for doing a job Coulson had not been hired for) and had merely been waiting to give it to him. The style would have to be changed slightly to suit the times… no, he wasn’t going to wonder on it. Pepper Potts, after all, managed Tony Stark. She was a miracle worker. 

He scrubbed at his unshaven cheek and stared out of his grimy window before he once again reached the conclusion that what he really needed was a cup of steaming coffee. Coulson picked up his suit jacket from where he had tossed it the night before and shrugged his arms through the sleeves. It was wrinkled, as was his shirt and pants and he remembered just before he left the office that his hair needed to be combed. Without a mirror it was difficult to tell how good his job was but by touch alone and with the help of a slightly mangled comb he kept in his desk drawers he assumed he was at least mildly presentable. He yearned for a shave but it would have to wait, the diner across the street hardly had a dress code after all.

The coffee was hot and strong enough to melt tire irons, he sweetened it with sugar but refrained from cutting it with cream. It tasted best this way, dark and sweet, it was enough to chase the lingering fuzz from his mind (although did nothing for the taste of his mouth). He ordered waffles and managed to quell the rumbling in his stomach before it got too loud. During this all he did his best to ignore the fact that the marshal was sitting right across from him in the booth. It was only because the marshal played along and nursed a cup of coffee of his own while Coulson broke his fast that he got away with it. Only when he had finished off the waffles and Louise had filled his cup up again did Coulson lean back and look Barton in the eye. Barton didn’t look repentant or expectant at all, just amused, and he took a long sip of his own coffee (mixed with a dollop of milk and nothing else) before he set the mug down. 

“I really did return for my coat.” 

“I’m not sure you didn’t forget it on purpose.” Coulson rubbed sticky fingers on an ineffectual napkin before he balled it up and tossed it onto his plate. Since Barton did not deny it and still looked amused Coulson sighed. “Did you?”

“I did.” Barton pulled his mug around in a circle by the handle. “I have not been entirely honest with you _but_ neither have you.” 

“If you were only interested in where Sif has been staying it would have been easy for you to find out on your own.” Barton nodded and Coulson narrowed his eyes. “What is it you’re really after here, marshal?” 

“Something… that is a lot bigger than either you or I.” 

They sat in silence then, Coulson stared at Barton until the man looked down into his coffee and then he looked around the diner. There were six other people besides them; the waitress was one, the cook in back the other, a toddler kicked his legs at the bar and his mother hushed him before he began screaming, a burly man was hunched over a newspaper spread open to the wanted ads and then in the booth closest to the door Coulson could see the back of a vibrant head of red hair. No obvious dangers, as far as he was concerned, was Barton worried about speaking about things out in the open or was he just being mysterious for mysteriousness’s sake? Coulson swirled his coffee around in his mug before taking a long swallow. “Thank you for being _enlightening_ , Marshal Barton but I have better ways to waste my day.”

Barton had winced at the heavy sarcasm in his tone, Coulson could care less. He wanted a shower and a fresh suit and for those he needed to head back to his apartment which Barton had turned into a crime scene. Briefly Coulson wished he wore an overcoat similar to Fury’s, it would have made his exit (post slapping the money for the meal and a tip on the table) out of the diner far more dramatic. With his back to the diner’s windows he failed to see the redhead slipping from her booth into the seat across from Barton.


	10. Blood Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury has Coulson's place locked down and that means the old friends need to meet.

He had expected a gambit from Fury and thus was not surprised when he was turned away from his apartment. “It’s a crime scene.” The rookie detective (first grade) that had been assigned to keep everyone out said, he was so spit-shined and iron pressed it was laughable. Coulson, however, had not been in the laughing mood. “The commissioner told me no one was to get in, not even you.” From the emphasis Officer Spit Polish had put on that last bit what Fury had said was no doubt ‘especially not Coulson’.

“Did Fury say anything else?” Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose. His neck, shoulders and back were aching, a headache was starting to pound at his temples and even his feet hurt. Of course Fury had assigned a rookie to watch the apartment, the man had to have joined the force after Coulson had left and was too eager for advancement, or at least recognition, to be bribed or otherwise persuaded to step aside. Coulson could probably have disabled the young man but he was tired and aching, a fight with a kid half his age would only have left him more so.

“He said that you needed to come down to the station to give a statement.” 

And that, of course, was that. Coulson, running low on funds, decided to go with public transportation instead of another cab. He preferred cabs to being stuffed into a bus or a subway car, he disliked the subway. Coulson held onto a steel rod and rocked along with the rest of the passengers, he did his best not to let his eyes glance over faces and compare them to police reports that were years old. He also did his best to watch his own wallet and the hands of those who looked like they had sticky fingers. His first year in New York he had lost his wallet on the subway six times, his first year with a badge that had been lifted off him as well but he had chased down and pinned the perpetrator.

It was a short walk from the station to police headquarters but it left Coulson feeling ready to fall over. He stood on the stone steps leading up to the massive building and rubbed a hand over his face. Stubble scraped at his palm and, with a sigh, he began the weary journey to Fury’s office. It was a path he had trod before, both in uniform and out, he was surprised that no one stopped him. His bedraggled state hardly screamed ‘upstanding citizen’. 

“Phil!” A hand fell on his shoulder, the grasp vaguely familiar. Jasper Sitwell smiled at him, a man with an honest face, the kind of face you could trust.

The kind of man you could control. “It’s been too long.” Sitwell squeezed his shoulder.

“Jasper.” From somewhere, probably nostalgia and the remnants of a close friendship, Coulson managed to summon up a truthful smile. “I’ve been busy.” He swept a glance up and down Sitwell’s uniform. “So have you, inspector.” 

Sitwell flushed and puffed and would no doubt have buffed the eagle on his chest if he had not suddenly remembered who he was talking to. “I’m so sorry, Coulson, about…” Phil cut him off before he could get started. Jasper had been his friend from the academy and through the ranks, at least until Phil had gotten sick with red tape and white lies. Looking at him was like looking in a funhouse mirror, a distortion of his self, a possible future. Sitwell probably felt the same way looking at Phil.

Coulson put his hand on Sitwell’s shoulder and gave a squeeze, returning the man’s affectionate touch. “We should have coffee sometime, catch up.” 

Sitwell returned Coulson’s smile, though it was strained. “Claire would never forgive me if I didn’t invite you to dinner.” 

“Dinner sounds good.” And with that, they released each other. Sitwell turned back to the desks of busy policemen and Coulson continued onwards. He wondered if they would follow up on such a thought, dinner with Claire and Jasper was something Coulson had once enjoyed. He had rarely brought a guest along (he had brought Maria once, she had not been impressed) but had always enjoyed the easy camaraderie and the sense of home that Jasper and Claire had. When Coulson had split from the police department he had let a lot of friends go, Sitwell had tried to keep in contact with him but over the years… things fell apart.

Fury’s secretary (someone new, not a face he recognized) ushered him right into the police commissioner’s office. The office had changed little from the last time Coulson had stood in it, the handful of pictures Coulson remembered decorating the walls had been replaced but the bookshelves of green and brown bound tomes appeared untouched. The room was still dark, the windows behind the commissioner’s chair serving to provide atmosphere but very little lighting, the bulbs screwed into the ceiling washing everything in yellow. The oak desk that took up most of the room had neither been moved nor dismantled, Coulson had long ago held a theory that the commissioner’s office had been built around that desk as he could not contemplate the act of geometry that would have gotten the desk through the door. There were no doubt new scratches on the desk, hidden by paperwork held down by Fury’s fist. Fury himself had grown more weathered, frown lines and worry lines had become more pronounced, age creeping up on the man in hints of silver and the softening of his jaw line. 

The scratches that Coulson remembered as fresh wounds were now faded scars, peeking out from behind a black eye patch.

“Phil.”

“Nick.”

Fury stood and offered him a hand to shake and then, once that was over, motioned for Coulson to take a seat.

The chair Coulson sunk into was leather, and soft. It made his weary limbs quite happy and had Coulson fearing that after the interview, or interrogation, was over he might never want to get up again. Coffee and breakfast seemed so very far away now and he forced himself to sit on the edge of the chair simply so he would not take a nap in the middle of Fury’s office. Fury was smiling at him, not so wide a smile that the average passerby would recognize it but Coulson, who had known Fury for years despite their recent schism, could see it.

“Should I get the uncomfortable chair I make rookies sit in?” Fury leaned back in his own comfortable leather chair, the red leather dwarfed him on both sides, framed him the same way the light from the windows did. It caused a bizarre illusion, making the man seem small but making his power so very obvious. “I wouldn’t want you to fall asleep.”

“If you hadn’t made my apartment a crime scene I wouldn’t be feeling so sleepy.” Coulson tried to hold onto his anger, the anger at his apartment being violated by multiple parties, an anger he had seen other private detective run on when everything else gave out. By nature, though, he was not an angry man, and looking into Fury’s eye he found that any anger he had felt for the man in the past (anger, betrayal, jealousy) it was all moot now. 

Fury lifted one black clad shoulder (he’d always worn black, when Coulson had teased him about imitating a villain in a moving picture he had claimed, instead, that it hid ink and coffee stains better than white) in a shrug. “I wasn’t the one who made your apartment a crime scene, Coulson. The two thugs who broke in did that and your marshal friend didn’t help matters by shooting them dead. Not that I doubt he did it in self-defense, or defense of your property or whatever it is he wants to claim. They’re thugs, he’s an officer of the law, no one’s going to make a stink.” Fury picked up one of his pens and twirled it idly between two fingers. “If you had stuck around and talked to me instead of running off like you did…”

Coulson sighed and resigned himself to being crushed by comfort as he shifted backwards in the chair. Keeping a seat on the edge had strained his already strained back, he was going to be aching for hours, at least. “My apartment isn’t the only place they broke into yesterday, although nothing was taken from my office. I haven’t gone through my apartment yet but there is not much they could have gained from it.” If they hadn’t been killed by Barton would they have been forced to go back to their boss empty handed? Coulson had no idea. He still had no idea what they had wanted in the first place. 

“You still should have spoken to me.” Fury stopped twirling the pen, it caused a shadow to fall across the room, a line in the sand. “The case you’re working right now, whatever it is, you should drop it.” 

Déjà vu swamps Coulson, a flood tide of memories.

_“Drop it.” Fury’s hand was tight on Coulson’s arm, they crowded together in a corner of the commissioner’s office, the only place out of the way and private, the only place currently where they could talk without someone eavesdropping or interrupting. “It’s going to get you killed.”_

_“I can’t just drop it, Nick, you know that.” Coulson gritted his teeth and attempted to shake his friend off but Fury kept holding on. “If I don’t keep looking for the Barnes boy…”_

_“He’s dead, Phil,” or worse, Coulson thought to himself, “and if you keep looking you’ll end up dead too. The brass isn’t going to help you.” Two eyes pinned him to the wall. “The feds are trying to burn someone for this and if you keep it up, if you keep talking to Odinnson and turning over stones for Barnes, they’re going to burn you.”_

“I can’t.” Coulson replied, it made Fury wince, no doubt swamped by the same rising tide. “I’m not sure why the Russians care, dropping the case doesn’t mean I’ll be any safer. And if I don’t find Thor you’re going to be facing a gang war, Nick.” There was more, he wanted to reunite Mrs. Foster with her husband and he needed to know what Barton wanted from this case.

Wanted to know why Barton was involved.

And more. 

Fury’s gaze flickered over his face, reading his resolution, before the man sighed and absently scratched under the edge of his eyepatch. “I don’t want to bury you, Phil.”

It was Coulson’s turn to smile now, a self-deprecating half smile that invited Fury to laugh at the joke. “My will stipulates cremation.”


	11. I've Been Touched Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a party without a little murder?

Coulson looked, dare he say it, dapper in the suit that Pepper had provided him. The suit, and his usual non-descript personality helped him blend seamlessly into the crowd attending Stark’s shindig. Normally a party like this would have been viewed through a telescopic lens, Coulson paid to sit outside and take pictures of the men and women who should have either been keeping a better eye on their bank accounts or a more attentive one on their SOs. On one rare occasion or another he might be invited inside for a reason such as this one, because the host liked to add a dash of spice to the blend, to mix them all up and create a stir. That was why Stark had invited him after all, no doubt not just to shake up Fury and the Mayor but also to see what guests shied away or sneered at Coulson.

Pepper was a striking figure on the dance floor, a swirl of blue fabric and red hair. She was laughing with her dancing partner, Jim Rhodes one of Tony’s closest friends, and whirling to the fast paced music. “You look like you could use a drink.” An all too familiar voice said and the slim stem of a champagne flute was being slipped into his hand. Coulson had to grasp it quickly, if delicately, because Barton let go of it almost as soon as the back of his fingers brushed against Coulson’s palm. Careful not to slosh the drink (while more champagne than his would be spilled that night whatever Stark was pouring was worth more than Coulson wanted to think about) he turned to look into Barton’s smiling face. “Surprised to see me?”

“Actually,” Coulson took a careful sip of the drink and ignored the way Barton’s smile widened more, “I would have been more surprised if you hadn’t turned up tonight. You seem to follow me everywhere, Barton.”

“Like gum stuck to your shoe.” Barton joked. Coulson hummed and observed Barton out of the corner of his eye, despite Barton making no secret of the once over he was giving Coulson.

The government employee looked sharp, too sharp indeed for a government man, but despite the style and the obvious quality of the suit it had a few spots that made it distinctive. A slight wear around the elbows, a thread coming undone at the left shoulder. The shoes were not as shined as they could be and when Barton shifted Coulson could see the worn down sole. So despite the fact that Barton may seem to fit in to the casual observer he would hardly pass a more rigorous test. “I wasn’t aware you knew Stark, however.” Pepper had left the floor by now so instead Coulson observed the other colorful whirling heads. There was Janet, no surprise, dancing carefully so that her husband would not tread on her feet. He caught sight of Nick swaying in the corner, his wife Monica held carefully in his arms. 

“Oh, I know Stark.” Clint shifted closer to Coulson and with the crowd pressed against them moving away would have made a scene, albeit a small one. Coulson disliked making scenes _even_ small ones. Instead he turned partially so he could meet Barton’s challenging gaze, and challenging it was. “You look good tonight.”

A feminine laugh came from behind, followed by a delicate touch and a flash of red. “I’m glad you think so Mister Barton.” Pepper stood next to Coulson now, clearing the crowd a bit as they stepped away from both her and Rhodes. “I picked the suit out myself. Phil, can Tony and I borrow you for a second? He wants you to meet someone.”

Despite a part of him wanting to refuse, Stark introducing him to people never ended well, Coulson could never refuse Pepper. “Of course.”

“Jim.” Coulson heard Clint greet Rhodes, he missed Rhodes’ return but when he looked over his shoulder he could see the two men shaking hands with smiles. It raised more questions for Coulson than it answered, however, because the past of Tony Stark’s best friend was just as convoluted as Stark’s own.

Pepper maneuvered the two of them seamlessly through the crowd and Coulson took the silence between them as a chance to think of what an odd couple they must make. He sent a few nods with smiles at former clients who appeared happy to see him and a few nods without smiles at people who did not. Pepper waved off any entreaties for her attention with a smile and continued holding onto Coulson’s arm until they had reached the stairs that swept from the ballroom up to the second floor. At the foot of the stairs, just off to the side of the ballroom, Stark was talking to a tall blonde man in a well fitted tuxedo. The shoulder to waist ratio was incredibly familiar to Coulson, as was that firmly set shining blonde hair. When Steve Rogers’ turned around and flashed his cinema star smile Coulson almost swooned.

“Detective!” Rogers’ exclaimed, his smile dropped briefly to be replaced by a smaller but more real one. “I hadn’t expected to see you here. Tony, is this who you wanted me meet?”

Stark was completely blocked from Coulson’s view by Rogers’ impressive span of chest but the shorter man stepped around Steve looking supremely unruffled. “If I had known the two of you had already met I wouldn’t have bothered. You holding out on us, Coulson?” Stark set an empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and grabbed what looked like another whiskey off of it. Coulson gave Pepper a concerned look but she merely lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. It was true enough that Tony drank more than was good for him; everyone knew it, but he refused to see much less listen to any doctor who wasn’t paid enough to spout off whatever Tony wanted to hear. Pepper and Rhodes would probably have instructed the caterers to water the drinks if they weren’t aware that Tony would know and subsequently throw a fit.

“Detective Coulson worked on Buck’s case.” Despite the fact he hasn’t stopped smiling there is a tightness to Rogers’ jaw when he speaks about James Buchanan Barnes. It is the same tightness Coulson feels in his chest when he thinks of the case, the same tightness that occasionally drives him to stay up all night, coffee replacing the blood in his veins. It is the case that splintered Coulson’s life, created a before and after and meant that Coulson would never be the same. It is also the true beginning of Coulson’s entanglement with Odinnson.

Why it is suddenly so very relevant after so many years, Coulson does not know, and he is not sure if he appreciates the amount of serendipity involved. “I am sorry we never found him.”

One large, warm hand was placed on Coulson’s arm and squeezed. Coulson was pretty sure his heart was going to beat itself out of his chest; Steve Rogers’ chest was so close to his own. Or, more accurately, so close to his face. Coulson would admit to having had a small crush on the former soldier turned matinee star, he had back when the case had started, but it had only grown worse as Rogers’ seemed to get handsomer and handsomer with age. His matinee idol smile melted many a woman’s heart and it had caused Coulson to curl around his popcorn bucket on more than once occasion.

“You tried.” Rogers said, and squeezed Coulson’s arm again. “That’s all I could have asked.”

Coulson could have gone on forever, tied up in Steve’s blue eyes and gripped by his warm hands, but a scream wrenched them apart. All four of them, Stark, Pepper, Rogers’ and Coulson spun to attempt to locate the source of the scream. It had come from the second floor on the other side of the room, and it was being joined by more panicked sounds. Coulson could make out Rhodes standing over a man clinging to the white marble balustrade which was quickly becoming streaked with red. 

“Barton.” Coulson gasped. Then he bolted up the stairs behind him and started pushing his way through the crowd. Moving against the current as he was (for if they weren’t standing still they were not moving towards the screaming women and shouting men) Coulson made more than one person unhappy.

“Sorry,” he found himself saying, “excuse me!” He bumped into man after man in tuxedos, women in sparkling dresses. “Excuse me,” he stumbled back from a woman in red whose toes he had just trod and stumbled right out of the crowd into a cleared space around Barton and Rhodes. Rhodes was attempting to place pressure on the wound, Coulson could not see how bad things were because all he could truly see was the red coloring the front of Bartons’ white waistcoat. 

He found himself wishing he hadn’t lost the champagne somewhere, because he could definitely have used a drink.


	12. Blood on the Sheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson wait to hear about Barton, he and Pepper discuss his case.

Coulson rubbed his hands against his pant leg. There was no reason for him to be as nervous as he felt, no reason to be sweaty or off-kilter. He had seen his fair share of knife fights while on the force, had witnessed more than one stabbing both of a suspect or fellow officer. He barely knew Barton and while the wounds had bled Barton had still be conscious when Rhodes had carried him into the room and Stephen Strange, Stark’s private doctor, had pushed them all out.

“Phil,” A hand on his elbow and when Coulson turned he could see it was Pepper Potts. She smiled at him and offered him a glass of champagne, “Here, drink up. We have more than enough.” Tony had eventually managed to gain control of his guests but a third of them had been caught up in the initial stampede for the doors. Gossip had been flowing freely before Barton had even been carried out of the room, who had been stabbed, why, who had done the stabbing… it would be in print tomorrow morning. It would probably even make the front page.

“Is it true what they say?” Coulson questioned, he took a sip of champagne before he continued, “That all publicity is good publicity?” 

“Ah…” Pepper took her own sip of champagne. “Well, it’s not Tony drunk and naked on the front steps again,” she smiled slightly at him, inviting him to join in the joke, “or found debauched in the garden and at least he was not the one attacked… no, it’s not really true. But this kind of story will only make people more interested in the next gala Tony throws. They pay less attention to his policies when he makes such good gossip fodder. And his policies are unconventional, as you well know.” 

“I know.” Back before Tony had fully wrested control away from Stane, when Coulson had still been on the force, they had more than a few run-ins with Tony. Post Stane their run-ins took a different tone with Tony not always on the right side of the law but always on the right side of morality. “The party still in full swing?”

“A little more subdued.” Pepper set her drink aside on a nearby end table. They were littered up and down the hallway with lamps on them, Coulson had no idea why. Did they serve a purpose? Did they store anything? “Phil,” and he was just distracting himself from looking Pepper in the eye. She was slightly taller than him, especially in the kinds of shoes she wore for Tony’s parties, so he tilted his head back a bit to look up into her worried face. “How do you know Mr. Barton?” 

Coulson again rubbed his hands against his pants. He wished he had taken off his suit coat, something to hide his hands or distract himself with. “He’s involved with a recent case, I’m not sure how but… what do you know about Thor Oddinson?” 

Pepper blinked at him. “What everyone knows. Has he… was he found?” Dead, was the implication, because what other way would a missing mobster’s son be found?

“No and yes. It turns out he wasn’t missing so much as hiding.” Coulson shrugged and then decided he might as well, he took off the expensive suit coat and loosened his tie. Pepper had seen him in worse states and he was feeling a little stifled. Pepper smiled sympathetically before stepping out of her shoes and leaning against the wall next to him. “His wife came to me. He is missing now, actually missing, and then…” the whole story came tumbling out of him. Jane Foster, Loki, Barton asking questions about Sif, Sif and the gang war, the Russians, even Amadeus’ bizarre hint. “And that would be it.”

Pepper’s sympathetic smile had faded as he talked and now she looked worried instead. “That’s quite the case, Phil.”

Coulson shrugged but the rest of their conversation was interrupted by the door to the room Barton was in opening up. The doctor and Rhodey stepped out, both of them looking a little blood spattered. Strange looked from Coulson to Pepper. “He’ll be fine, whoever sliced him up did a good job of making him bleed without doing any real damage. Give him a day or two and he’ll be up on his feet. Not terribly steady feet but,” Strange shrugged, “I don’t work magic.”

“Thank you Stephen.” Pepper smiled at Strange before waving him and Rhodey further down the hall. The door hung open in front of them, Coulson could see Barton’s feet lying on blood stained towels spread out over the bed. Those would need to be changed. “Phil,” She grasped at Coulson’s wrist before he could start towards the room. “About your case.”

It was difficult, and he did not want to examine why but self-denial was quickly becoming irritating, to pry his eyes away from the sick room to look back at Pepper. This obsession with Barton was unhealthy. He was _drawn_ to the man in a way completely different from his hopeless crush on Steve Rogers. He knew everything about Rogers, he knew nothing about Barton.

“What about it?” He didn’t mean to be so short with Pepper, his anger was directed inwards, “I’m sorry, that was-“

“Do you remember when Tony…” there were a lot of things that could have followed that sentence, a lot of memorable incidents involving Tony Stark with either Coulson involved or adjacent, “…after Stane tried to kill him and we placed him in the sanitarium to recover. Do you remember it?”

Coulson nodded. He remembered being hired by Stane to find Tony who had ‘gone missing’. It had not been easy for Pepper and Rhodey to hide Tony away but they had managed it. Coulson had difficulty finding them, foiled at every way paid off informants, friends or noble sanitarium employees unwilling to divulge information. He had eventually found Tony but it had taken time and effort and by then he had begun to suspect something more was at play. “Are you saying,” Coulson said, realizing suddenly what Pepper had been hinting at. “That you think Thor could be…”

Of course.

It would be easy enough to place him in a sanitarium, under a false name, as long as money was provided. A sanitarium with staff willing to take the extra step for more money or possibly an asylum where his cries for freedom would be unheard. But who would have hidden him away?

And where was he hidden?

“Pepper, you’re a godsend.” He grasped her hand for a handshake and then, impulsively, leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek. He flushed, because that was incredibly forward of him, before dropping her hand and racing down the hallway towards an exit, any exit, he’d take a window if he couldn’t find a door soon enough.

He had more calls to make.


End file.
